


Who are you?

by Fuinixe



Series: Febuwhump 2021 [12]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Amnesia, Eventual Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gore, Hanged and Quartered, Historical, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani Whump, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani and Nicky | Nicolò di Genova are in Love, M/M, Medically accurate retrograde amnesia (I think), Mentioned Andy | Andromache of Scythia, Mentioned Quynh | Noriko, Nicky | Nicolò di Genova Loves Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Pre-Canon, Protective Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Temporary Amnesia, Temporary Character Death, True Love's Kiss, Violent Thoughts, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:07:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29400975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuinixe/pseuds/Fuinixe
Summary: When he recovers from a particularly traumatic death, Joseph has full autobiographical amnesia. Nicolò has to coordinate their escape while coping with the possibility that, despite the connection that remains, the Joseph he knew is gone forever.Basically, the whumpiest possible whump followed by the fluffiest possible fluff. This is my favorite trope, after all.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Febuwhump 2021 [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2143242
Comments: 18
Kudos: 179
Collections: febuwhump 2021





	Who are you?

Nicolò had not felt this scared in a very long time, but he had to seal up the dread that suffused his entire body and set it aside, because Joseph was in grave danger.

The mob was too vast to fight. He’d wrapped himself in dirty rags and played the part of a street dweller, borne along on the waves of the crowd’s fervor, making himself into the kind of person who could hide in plain sight until Joseph could be rescued, rather than the person he wanted to be: an angel of vengeance, killing as many people as possible until he was overtaken.

Getting caught would not free Joseph.

This was the thing of it: he still didn’t know if he’d made the right choice. They’d never come back from a death like this before. Joseph had been dragged behind a horse, along the muddy central road; dragged across the wheel ruts until his clothes were in tatters, until his skin was peeling off, until he was just a man-shaped form of mud and blood. Then they’d tied a rope around his neck and hung him from the gallows, chanting, “Demon! Demon!”

At that point, Nicolò knew Joseph could come back. Would still come back. 

But then...the executioner had dropped his body to the ground, and heaved up his massive axe, and as if in slow-motion, Nicolò watched his body cleaved clean in two.

The burst of adrenaline in his veins turned time to a standstill. The people around him, their faces monstrous with bloodlust. Bands of iron wrapped around his heart. Calculating in his head, the same cold, still way he felt when he aimed a crossbow bolt into an enemy’s heart from hundreds of yards away. To turn on these people now would be to end up cleaved in two himself, and then who would put Joseph back together?

So he watched, teeth grinding to dust, as the executioner removed Joseph’s limbs, removed his head. Hung the pieces of him from the gallows frame, grisly and horrifying.

Slumped against a building facing the town square, curled up, feeling like nothing so much as a dead body himself, Nicolò waited for nightfall. 

When he was certain he would not be caught -- for this mission was too important to risk any interruption -- he cut down all the parts of Joseph with his sword, and carried each bit to the nearest dark alley. He arranged them, as best as he could, in the shape and orientation of the man he had loved for over three hundred years. Then he went and fetched the pike upon which Joseph’s head was speared, and carried it, too, and held it to the stumpy neck of Joseph’s torso.

The whole time, a small part of him called him a fool and a wretch. Mocked him for being in denial. That this was the end, that not even they could come back from a death such as this. He thought of the woman he had known in Budapest who had curled up with her husband’s dead body and refused to leave it, thinking he was sleeping. Who had to be dragged away, days later, kicking and screaming, insisting he’d awaken if she just waited long enough.

He felt like that woman, now. Delusional.

It did not stop him. He did as he knew he must. He had to try. He held Joseph’s head, hands clasped over his muddy, ripped ears, and prayed aloud.

“Please,” he choked out. His voice sounded hollow and muffled to his ears. “Please.” He could form no other words.

The minutes ticked by in agony. Nicolò’s whole body felt wrought in lead. Was this really it? Was this really the end? Would that be Joseph’s last memory of this life they shared, dragged down a street by an ungrateful mob?

And then, out of the corner of his eye, a finger twitched. He stared at Joseph’s hand. It was too dark to see the joins of his body clearly, but he thought -- maybe it was wishful thinking, but he thought -- 

And then, unmistakable, Joseph drew in one rattling breath, and the whole entire universe came flooding back in.

Of the two of them, Joseph was easily the most emotive. He laughed easily, cried easily. It was one of the thousands of things that Nicolò loved about him. He could not remember clearly the last time he, himself, had cried; it had been, perhaps, decades.

But now, as Joseph sucked in hacking breaths and groaned, limbs spasming with pain, Nicolò curled over him and sobbed, as silently as he could manage, fearful of their discovery, now that they were so close to getting away.

His eyes and nose and mouth streamed; he could not get ahold of himself, much as he wanted to; all the terror of the day struck him, and all the relief of the moment, and he was shaking and clutching at Joseph’s face, tears and spittle running out of him, wholly overcome and unable to stop it.

Joseph maneuvered himself out from beneath Nicolò and took a sitting position facing him, patting his biceps but saying nothing. Later, Nicolò would realize that he should have found that strange, but in the moment, the only thing he could focus on was trying, futilely, to calm his breathing.

Finally, he mopped his face up with his sleeve, took in one long, shuddering breath, and looked up into Joseph’s face. “I thought you were gone,” he croaked.

Joseph’s jaw worked. “I’m sorry to say this, I truly am, but… who are you?”

The air in Nicolò’s lungs stood still.

“And...for that matter…” Joseph reached up to rub his hair ruefully, a familiar gesture, but grimaced when he felt that his curls were a disgusting mass of gore and mud. “Who am I?”

“What?” Nicolò asked, disbelievingly.

Joseph shook his head, slowly. “Clearly something terrible has happened here, and I was severely wounded. I feel fine now, though. Well,” he amended, “I would very much like to bathe and put on clothes at the earliest opportunity.” The side of his mouth quirked up in a sad attempt at a smile.

Nicolò’s mind was racing. Joseph was speaking their private dialect, which meant that something of the man he loved remained, as if that would not have been obvious enough in his familiar gestures and the gentle, apologetic tone of voice he was taking. Perhaps this was a consequence of his gruesome death, or perhaps his mind was, somehow, hiding truths from him, as a form of self-protection. In either case, there was no way to sort it out right now. They had to get away from this town as quickly as possible.

Nicolò cursed himself for his earlier dullness of spirit. He had not thought this far ahead. What would Joseph wear? Of the rags that had clung to his body when he’d reached the gallows, none had remained attached after he’d been cut to pieces. 

“I will explain everything to you, but we are in grave danger and must leave this town immediately.” He hesitated. “Will you come with me?” Joseph nodded, and together they stood.

“Stay close behind me,” he said, drawing his sword. “If any man tries to stop us, keep away, and let me deal with him. I will keep an eye out for laundry that we can steal, but it is not a priority. We have to get you out.” He stared at Joseph’s face, searching for signs of doubt, but it was very dark, and Joseph was not himself. “Quickly, now.”

Nicolò stayed to the shadows, thankful that it was a moonless night, and strained his ears for any sign of pre-dawn activity. Blessedly, Joseph stayed close behind him, his skill at moving silently unaltered by his death. Once, he gripped Nicolò’s sleeve, and pointed to the side, where a clothesline was barely visible between two buildings. They hurried over and plucked a large tunic and a set of brais from the line. Joseph pulled on both, over top of his filth, and as he had no cord to tie the brais properly, only rolled the waist enough to keep them from slipping off. They resumed their rushed exit from the town.

When ten minutes had passed since they’d seen the last outbuilding, Nicolò stopped and sat on the ground to begin unlacing his boots. “Unfortunately, we do not have a spare pair with us, so you will have to wear these.”

“What will you wear?” Joseph asked, a note of confusion in his voice.

“I will be fine,” Nicolò said firmly. “If my feet are injured, I will heal.”

“And I will not?” Joseph asked, perplexed. “I had thought…well…”

Nicolò did not enjoy the look of disturbed bewilderment on his husband’s face. “You will,” he assured him.

“Then why?”

“Look, please, just wear my boots. You have been through enough today.”

Joseph set his shoulders stubbornly, giving Nicolò the fleeting thought that perhaps an argument about shoes had restored his husband’s memory. “It makes no sense. My feet are filthy. I will ruin your boots if I put my feet inside them now. Then we will have no good boots at all instead of two.” 

Nicolò stared at him and shook his head ruefully. “Fine.” He re-laced them, and they continued onward.

Nicolò led Joseph for nearly two hours, back to their campsite, which seemed blessedly untouched. The sun was rising, now, in the forest, and he winced to see the state of Joseph’s appearance. Much of his hair and beard had been lost, when he’d lost all that flesh to the road, and his whole head was patchy with fresh, bare skin. Although much of the dried mud and blood had flaked off, even more remained.

Joseph did not notice his facial expression. He was busy poking around the camp. “Is this ours?” he asked.

“Yes.” Nicolò was trying to decide if they should pack up and press onward. “I don’t know if it’s safe to stay here.” He had, of course, not slept all night, and Joseph was showing signs of exhaustion from his laborious healing.

The silence stretched out awkwardly. Nicolò realized with a start that he was waiting for Joseph’s input, and that it would not be forthcoming. He had to make the decision on his own.

“I regret that this is necessary, but I think we should keep moving. Put as much distance between us and that wretched place as possible.”

Joseph nodded. “If you say so.”

Nicolò did not poke at that, merely started rolling up his possessions. Joseph, to his surprise, began to do the same, albeit gingerly, after a moment of hesitation. 

Before he donned his pack, he cast about automatically for Joseph’s saif, and realized with sorrow that the townspeople had stolen it. They had much to replace.

“I don’t suppose you will wear my boots now?” he asked, little hope in his voice. Joseph shook his head and they continued deeper into the forest. Nicolò couldn’t help but think about what all this meant for them. He felt, still, the immense relief that Joseph had awoken, and the pain of his memory loss paled in comparison to the hell that had yawned before Nicolò in the town square and in the alley. He did not want to ponder all the implications right now, especially since Joseph’s state could be temporary.

Near noon, they crossed a thin stream, and stopped so that Joseph could strip and scrub away the filth from his arms and legs, although the stream was much too shallow to dip his head in. He wet his hands and tried to wipe his face to marginal effect.

They waited while Joseph air-dried. “Your feet are clean now. Will you put these on?” Nicolo asked, gesturing at his feet.

Joseph examined his face, and Nicolò wondered what he saw. “I will put on the boots if you tell me your name.”

“Nicolò di Genova,” Nicolò responded, readily, and began untying his laces.

“Do I get more questions?”

“Yes,” Nicolò said, pausing so that he could look Joseph in the eyes. His eyes were one part of his face untouched by their ordeal, a captivating, lovely amber in the high sun’s light.

“How do we know each other?”

Nicolò returned to removing his shoes. “That is a very long story.”

“I wish to hear it, nonetheless.”

Nicolò’s lips tightened. “I am afraid I will frighten you. Or that you will not believe me,” he admitted. He handed over the first boot to Joseph and bent to unlace the second one.

Joseph mulled that over. “Maybe something simpler? What is my name?” Nicolò looked up, startled. Had he really not addressed him by name yet? And how like Joseph was it, to ask for Nicolò’s name before his own.

“The name of your birth is Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad al-Kaysani,” he said, a reverent tone creeping into his voice, “but these days you have been going by Joseph.”

“Yusuf, Yusuf,” he repeated, several times, then “Joseph,” trying them out in his mouth. “Hello, my name is Joseph.” He nodded to himself. A smile crept over Nicolò’s face, and he could not help gazing over adoringly. He wondered if Joseph had retained the ability to read his face, a skill he’d built over the centuries, or if his face was now a blank mask to Joseph, as it had first been when they’d met.

Joseph tilted his chin down and gazed up at Nicolò through his eyelashes, and Nicolò felt a prickle of heat on the back of his neck. God in heaven, Joseph was flirting with him right now, wasn’t he?

Nicolò felt a burst of joy in his chest as hope surged, a hope he hadn’t realized he’d been suppressing. Even if -- in the very worst case scenario -- even if Joseph never regained his memories, he was still -- and he would still want --

They sat beneath the sun-dappled leaves for a moment, smiling shyly at each other. Then Joseph cleared his throat. “What else should I ask you?”

“You should know that we heal very rapidly. We do not die. And we must keep this a secret from others.” Joseph tilted his head to the side in a way that meant he was unsurprised. “You remember this?” Nicolò asked, shocked.

“Remember? No, not really. I suppose I...I know it, in the way that I know that stags and does mate in the spring, and feet are called feet, and how to pack a rucksack, and,” he shrugged, “the best way to prepare carrots.”

“Actually, that reminds me of something I was wondering.” Nicolò switched to Romani. “Do you understand what I’m saying right now?” Joseph nodded, an expression of interest on his face. Nicolò switched to Sabir. “And do you understand these words as well?” 

Joseph nodded again, and grinned openly. “I see that whoever I am, I must be very well-traveled.”

Nicolò’s breath caught in his throat. Grubby as Joseph was at the moment, his beard and hair ruined to the point that both would need to be shaved, Joseph’s wide smile was unchanged and beautiful, and Nicolò had not seen it in several days. Looking back at him, Joseph’s eyes crinkled further, and he smirked a little. “Don’t let the bugs in,” he chided. Nicolò shut his mouth with a snap.

“I think I am dry enough, now,” Joseph announced, sparing Nicolò from further embarrassment, and stood to pull his stolen clothes back on. Nicolò felt a sense of deep satisfaction at seeing his feet properly clad.

They continued onward past the stream, their pace a bit less frantic, now. The panic in Nicolò that had driven him to push them to travel ever further from the town faded, and despite the fatigue that was gnawing at him, he felt, altogether, peaceful. They would keep walking until they could walk no longer, and then they would rest. Occasionally a sharp stick or thorn would poke him in the sensitive places between his toes, but he could not muster irritation, only gratitude that nature herself was helping to keep him awake.

As long as Joseph was at his side, everything would be okay.

Finally, they came upon a glen near sunset, and Nicolò happened to glance at Joseph when he was mid-yawn. “We can stop here.” 

Joseph collapsed to the ground and laid upon the grass, spread-eagle, staring at the rosy clouds. “ _Alhamdulillah_ ,” he groaned, stretching out his limbs. 

Nicolò’s heart ached, he loved him so much. 

They did not bother building a campfire, just divided the bread and salted meat in Joseph’s pack in two, and ate it all. “Are there more of us?” Joseph asked, just as Nicolò was wondering what Quỳnh and Andromache were doing in that moment. 

“Yes. Two women.”

Joseph nodded, looking pleased. “Do we like them?”

Nicolò chuckled. “Yes, we do. We are to meet them in a month’s time, in fact.”

“What are their names? What are they like?” Joseph asked, leaning forward, eyes shining with excitement.

“They are called Quỳnh of the Red River Delta and Andromache the Scythian. We call them Quỳnh and Andromache.” He paused. “And sometimes, ‘sister.’” 

Joseph smiled, softly. “It sounds nice to have sisters.”

“It is. They have taught us so much.”

“Older sisters, then?”

Nicolò choked on a laugh. “Oh, yes. Much older.”

Joseph narrowed his eyes. “There is much you aren’t telling me.”

Nicolò immediately sombered. “You’re right. It is… it is a lot. I am scared of frightening you.”

Joseph brushed a hand lightly over Nicolò’s knee, sending tingles up Nicolò’s leg. “I will not be frightened.”

“You cannot know that.”

“Alright, fine. I will tell you all the things that would frighten me. And if you were not going to tell me any of them, then you must tell me the truth. Fair?”

Nicolò sat for a moment, appreciating his clever husband. He was curious what Joseph would say. “Fine,” he allowed. “Fair.”

“Have you made a deal with the devil himself?”

Nicolò shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

“Do you eat babies?”

Nicolò tossed his head back and laughed. “No, certainly not.”

“Hmm.” Joseph’s hand went up to stroke his beard, and he looked surprised when his hand found its mauled state. He dropped it. “Well, I can’t think of anything else that would scare me.”

“Really?” Nicolò asked, teasingly. “Nothing at all? What if we gain our healing powers by consuming the blood of virgins?”

“Well, do you?”

“No.”

Joseph threw his hands in the air. “There, you see! You are not remotely frightening.” Nicolò shook his head. Joseph caught his eyes and raised his eyebrows, his gaze turning beseeching. Nicolò was powerless to that look. He wondered if Joseph knew that, somehow. “Nicolò, please, just tell me. I want to know.”

Nicolò sighed and laid back in the grass, and a moment later, Joseph followed him. Their hands brushed, not quite touching.

“When I say we do not die, I mean we do not age. We live a very long time,” he intoned, staring up at the purpling sky.

“How long?” Joseph asked.

“Centuries. Millenia.” 

Joseph hummed. “That seems right, to me.”

“It does?”

“Yes. It just sounds right. Not surprising.”

“Oh,” Nicolò said, feeling a bit foolish.

“How old are we?”

“Nearly three hundred and fifty years old.”

“And our sisters?”

“Much, much older.”

At his side, Joseph puffed out a breath. “Tell me the story of how we met, Nicolò.”

“Ah. We were on different sides of a great war. I traveled, as part of an invading army, to retake a city I thought belonged to my faith.”

Joseph said nothing. A shame that Nicolò had not felt in many years crawled in his belly, as if he was explaining this for the first time to a new and innocent Yusuf.

“I was in the wrong. I know that now. You, you were only defending the city. We met on the battlefield and killed each other.”

Joseph gasped and sat up straight to stare at Nicolò. “No!”

Nicolò could not suppress a small smile at his shock. “Yes.”

“And then…” Yusuf said, slowly, putting the pieces together, “and then we rose again. At each other’s side.”

“Yes, only to kill each other again.” 

Joseph smacked him in the chest, lightly. “You’re joking with me right now.”

“No, I’m not. We were very stupid.”

Joseph threw his head back to the sky and laughed, and Nicolò’s mouth went dry at the sight.

“And how many times did we do this?”

Nicolò shook his head, feeling the ground against the back of his head as he rocked it. “We have always disagreed on the number.”

“Incredible.” Joseph flopped back on the grass beside him. They watched a flock of birds pass overhead, squawking to each other, silhouettes black against the pigments of the sky. “I wish I could remember,” he said, wistfully.

“We should sleep,” Nicolò offered. “Perhaps that is all you need. A good rest.”

“Oh, yes,” Joseph said, sounding pleased. “I had not thought of that possibility. And,” he yawned once more, “I am quite tired.”

Nicolò knelt up to pull out their bedrolls and blankets. He handed Joseph his, and unrolled his own. Joseph, without hesitation, placed his precisely next to Nicolò’s, which warmed his heart very much.

“Good night, Nicolò di Genova,” he murmured, when they had settled.

“Good night,” Nicolò responded, swallowing the term of endearment at the tip of his tongue.

They were both asleep in moments.

~~~

Many hours later, Nicolò gasped awake, bile rising in his throat. He swallowed it down and rummaged for his waterskin to clear out his mouth. In his dream, he had retraced their steps all the way back to the town that had killed Joseph; barricaded every door; and set the entire settlement on fire, while its people slept. Ringing in his ears were the vivid screams of women screaming _mercy_ for their children.

“Mother of God,” he whispered to himself, wiping his hand against his mouth. At his side, Joseph rolled over to face Nicolò and grunted in his sleep. Nicolò reclined again and tried to settle himself, then rolled over to look at Joseph. He could make out a few details by the sliver of the waxing crescent that hung above them. Where fresh skin had grown on his scalp and face, there was now a light fuzz. His left dimple was visible beneath it. Filth was still meshed in what remained of his curls, and he did not smell wonderful.

Nicolò was so indescribably grateful that Joseph had awoken.

He tried to focus only on that thought as he drifted back to sleep.

~~~

When Nicolò woke again, birds were chirping and dawn was nearly breaking. He turned his head to find Joseph and found that his eyes were already open, watching Nicolò.

“Good morning,” Joseph offered in a hushed tone.

“Do you…?” Nicolò began, then trailed off, afraid of the answer.

“No,” Joseph responded softly. Sadly.

“Oh.” Nicolò’s heart sank, but he sought out Joseph’s hand automatically and covered it with his own. “It’s fine.”

“Is it?”

Nicolò swallowed.

“Will you tell me the rest of the story?” Joseph asked, quietly.

“What story?” he asked, though he knew the answer very well.

“Our story.”

Nicolò glanced away. He felt a deep sorrow welling up in his chest, letting himself feel for the first time the sinking, terrible fear that his lifetime companion, the man who knew everything about him, who carried his every secret, was gone, and might not return. For the second time in nearly as few days, he felt rare tears prickling at his eyes, but this time he blinked them away easily.

The silence stretched between them.

“I think I know what happened next,” Joseph spoke, quietly.

“Oh?” he rolled back onto his side to face Joseph. “What do you think happened?”

Joseph clenched Nicolò’s fingertips where they were tucked in against his palm. 

“We fell in love,” he whispered.

Nicolò drew in a deep, shuddering breath and nodded. Joseph brought their hands to his lips and kissed the back of Nicolò’s. Nicolò couldn’t help but shiver at the sensation.

“I know I’m still a mess, but I desperately want to kiss you right now,” Joseph said.

In lieu of answering, Nicolò leaned forward, drawn inexorably towards his guiding star.

Their mouths met, chastely, and Joseph whimpered.

Nicolò drew back. “Alright?”

“Yes. God, yes,” Joseph answered, and their lips met again, mouths soft and yearning against each other.

“Nicolò,” Joseph murmured, and pulled away. “Oh, Nicolò! I--” he sat up abruptly, hand to his chest, eyes wide. “Holy shit!” He leaned over Nicolò, clutching at his tunic. “Nicolò! Nicolò, Nicolò, Nicolò,” he chanted.

“Joseph, what--”

“I remember. I remember.”’

Joy, pure and bright, flooded into Nicolò, and he sat up, dragging Joseph into his arms. “Oh, my Yusuf, oh, oh,” he exclaimed, covering his face with kisses. “My beloved, my darling, my heart, my treasure, how I’ve longed to say these words --”

“Nicolò,” Joseph sobbed, wetly, clutching at him. “I love you so much.”

“I love you,” Nicolò murmured, fervently. “You will always come back to me. _Always_.” He felt dampness on the side of his neck. 

“Always,” Joseph choked out, through his tears. “I promise you. Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please!! Give me all your thoughts!! :-D


End file.
